First Date
by Younger Dr. Grey
Summary: AU. Quinn needs someone for a charity event and there's nothing more charitable than spending time with Rachel Berry. Pre-Show.
1. with the invite from hall

**Title:** First Date (1/?)  
><strong>Author<strong>: _youngerdrgrey_  
><strong>Pairing:<strong> Rachel/Quinn  
><strong>Summary:<strong> AU. Quinn needs someone for a charity event and there's nothing more charitable than spending time with Rachel Berry. Pre-Show.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>WarningsSpoilers:** None  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I own nothing. All rights for the characters and the world go to their owners (like Ryan Murphy and FOX). I, in no way, believe – or would lead others to believe – that I own _Glee_. I am merely a fan of the television show who has ideas for things that RIB could do/could've done.

**Author's Note:** This is an Alternate Universe Faberry fanfic that takes place prior to the show beginning. Please review if you read.

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><p><strong>(1?) FIRST DATE  
><strong>

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><p>Lockers slam shut in a staccato of crashes and clangs. As the door to the sunny outside world opens, sunlight basks the prominent, dominant female sauntering amidst the sullen, teenage zombies. Even from five feet away, I can't bear to turn away from her.<p>

It's sad really. She's Quinn Fabray, and I don't have a chance in hell of ever having her. But, just like Cady Heron, horrible circumstances will not stop me from imagining that glorious moment when she will strut down the hallway, walk right by Finn Hudson, and say-

"Go out to dinner with me, Berry."

How great would that be? That'd be something to tell my dads. Not just because she's the most popular girl in school, but just the fact that it is a date at all, with someone who actually could possibly be interested in me romantically. That just doesn't happen often for one Rachel Berry.

I glance up from my locker, and she just seems so close to me. Loose strands of blonde hair reach towards me despite the deterring frown on her face. The wind doesn't move them away though. In fact, nothing about her is moving. Except for the painted pink nails that drum lightly against her barely covered thigh. She's so predictably cute when she's impatient. Oh, I should probably move out of her way.

I step a bit farther into my locker, but she makes no move to go around me. Actually, she watches me from her hooded eyes that are tainted with disbelief.

What did I do? Is glee club causing too many problems for the Cheerios again? We only have three members. Well, I could try not to practice in the locker rooms in the morning. Though, then I would hardly ever get in enough singing time to secure my vocal range is exceptionally broad and flawless by the time I start auditioning for colleges.I 'll just have to handle her frustration. Besides, it has her looking at me; that's worth a slushie or two.

Quinn continues to shower her leg with the dance of anxiety. She huffs dramatically and fixes me with an even stronger stare. She demands, "Can you just answer already? I'm sure you don't have any other offers."

Answer what?

I rack my mind for any comment I could have possibly missed. The only question I can recall though is - oh. Whoa, wait, did she actually - oh gosh. Quinn Fabray just asked me out. Quinn Fabray just asked _me_ out. I would empty my bladder in excitement, but the short skirt I'm wearing would make it pretty obvious to everyone around me what's happening. I settle for just hearing it again, consciously this time.

"I-I'm sorry, Quinn, could you repeat that?" I ask.

Her eyes roll to the ceiling as if asking God if she truly has to repeat herself. She steps in to me and says, quieter this time, "Go to dinner with me." She looks away instantly. Far off on the other side of the hall are the rest of the Cheerios. None of them have noticed her talking to me yet. She calms at that. She adds, "Every Cheerio needs to take someone less fortunate to Breadstix for the fundraiser tonight. Sue just told me Finn doesn't count, so I'm going for my second choice."

I barely even take the time to let her addition register.

"I'm your second choice?" I check. It's me? Not Noah. Not some AV squad kid. Me. Rachel Barbra Berry. Oh my.

She awkwardly returns to watching her friends again. Obviously, that was the wrong thing for me to say. I clear my throat and say, "I resent being anything but the best. However, since you are in desperate need, I will accompany you to dinner tonight."

It takes every ounce of my strength not to beam at the end. I try to mirror the almost painful vague look on Quinn's face. I still wind up grinning a bit. She, on the other hand, doesn't show any sign of having heard me. It sinks into my gut that maybe this whole thing is a joke. Someone must have found out about my stupid little school girl crush and convinced her to use it to take away the small semblance of dignity that I hold onto with the grip of life on a daily basis. Well played, asshole.

"This isn't a date, Berry," she informs me, "I'm not picking you up. You're not picking me up either. But, you're paying, and we will be ordering from the expensive menu."

I nod. I ask, "Any other demands?"

She looks me up and down before saying, "Wear something hot. I want the guys to lose it on themselves when we walk in." She turns without another word, leaving me standing there like an idiot. Not that it matters what I look like now. For the first time in my educational career, I consider skipping class. Do I even own anything that could be considered, by Quinn Fabray standards, 'hot'?

I whip out my cell phone and go to my first speed dial. Daddy answers in an instant. I scrounge up my best fake sob and relinquish it into the receiver.

"Oh, honey," Daddy greets, concern dripping from him.

"I've just had the wildest experience, Daddy. Can I please come home?"

I can imagine he nods into the phone before saying the magic words I hear so often:

"Of course, Rachel. Anything for you."

Now, if only I can get Quinn to say them. There's time for that still. But first, I have to make a few stops.

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><p><strong>End of Part One. Please leave your thoughts about it below then head on off to the rest!<br>**


	2. with the king of fashion

**Title:** First Date (2/?)  
><strong>Author<strong>: _youngerdrgrey_  
><strong>Pairing:<strong> Rachel/Quinn  
><strong>Summary:<strong> AU. Quinn needs someone for a charity event and there's nothing more charitable than spending time with Rachel Berry. Pre-Show.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>WarningsSpoilers:** None  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I own nothing. All rights for the characters and the world go to their owners (like Ryan Murphy and FOX). I, in no way, believe – or would lead others to believe – that I own _Glee_. I am merely a fan of the television show who has ideas for things that RIB could do/could've done.  
>Past Chapters - One<p>

**Author's Note:** In chapter two, Rachel decides she needs a little help. Please review if you read.

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><p><strong>(2?) FIRST DATE  
><strong>

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><p>Kurt has the best fashion sense out of everyone in the school. No matter what the boy wears, he owns it. If anyone would know how to dress me for my not-date with Quinn, it would be him. Only problem is that he is a lot like most of the population of William McKinley High School and generally hates me. I'll have to use every bit of charm within me to befriend him and coax him into helping me. Most people would have nothing to talk to him about, but I can think of a few things. And it's not just about using him either.<p>

As a recently out but ridiculously transparent youth, Kurt Hummel presents the perfect opportunity for me to broaden my horizons and show just how personable I can be. Having two gay dads, I know quite a bit about the difficulties of living in Lima and being considered as nothing more than a flamboyant freak. I know all about the lives of my fathers, including their personal coming out stories. I figure we can bond over the fact that half of the town will never accept us because of the labels placed upon on us. I figure that the two of us can talk and help each other truly realize who we are and come to accept the things that maybe we aren't willing to divulge just yet. Like my nonsensical crush on Quinn. One would think he'd feel the same way; however, when I go to talk to him, he greets me with this:

"Ew. Could you not stand so close to me? Your sweater is giving me a migraine."

I blink back the sting of his words. Whilst repeating to myself one of my favorite quotes ("no one can make you feel inferior without your permission"), I take a step back. It's best not to start this by ignoring his wishes.

"Did you know that approximately one in every fifteen residents of Allen County has a gay relative, or friend? And did you know that of that very small category, only four in every thirteen will openly converse with them with others present?"

Kurt stares back at me, blankly.

"What do you want?" he asks.

Always crass that Kurt. But I won't let that deter me.

I propose, "Since the majority of our town's population finds anyone of or relating to homosexuality unfit for their friendship, I thought that the two of us could bond and create a sort of companionship that would get us through the next two years relatively unscathed."

"Unlike you, Rachel, I have friends." His tone holds no contempt, no sting, nothing. Yet, it burns like the searing, hot tea the Cheerios dumped on me shoes yesterday. He clears his throat, adding, "And even if I didn't, I wouldn't really go for you. You're not easy to talk to. You're not friendly. You treat everyone as if we're five-year-olds new to performing and breathing when, in all honesty, people would much rather prefer to see us hit the stage than you. I'd say no offense, but you can take that however you want."

"People throw you in dumpsters," I say. He winces and I wonder if there's a way to recover from that. He has to help me. I have no one else. I go on, "They lock you in lockers. Guys have changed out of your gym class because of you being in the same row as them. There are teachers who hate you, absolutely hate every little thing about you and give you bad grades because of who you are. No matter what you say or do, you will never get as much as you deserve."

"Do you have a point, Rachel?" he asks through pursed lips.

"People don't like me. But, if I could spend time with more popular people, all of that would change," I tell him.

"I'm flattered, but as you said, I'm not exactly an in-crowd favorite," he says.

I can more than just affirm that. "Right, but you could be. _We_ could be, if you only do one little thing for me."

"And that is?"

"Dress me. I'm convinced that if I conform to the fashionable aspect of typical American teenage culture, the doors of opportunity will fall to my feet."

"Dress you?" he repeats. "I'm good, but not that good. You'd need an in and the only in you'll get with my help is some jock in your bed for a night."

I was thinking more of a cheerleader, but how would he know?

I straighten my back in an attempt to look less vulnerable than the needy words I'm about to say.

"Tonight, I have a once in a lifetime chance and there's no way I can do it looking like I always do. I need your help, Kurt," I say to him.

He takes me in. Head to toe. Side to side. Fluttering eyelashes to tense fingertips. Finally, he sighs.

"I T.A. next period. We can go to the mall and find you something," he says.

I almost question why we don't stop at my house first, but we both know that there isn't going to be the right thing there. As I have been told, my normal wardrobe resembles someone's crazy fetish and not the mundane monstrosity that walks the halls of McKinley.

I nod along with him.

He clears his throat. When I look to him, he says, "I do have one condition." He pauses for effect - and I'm sure he does because he's almost as dramatic as I am. "I want to know everything about this date. From pick up to the awkward moment in the hall the next day."

That's easy enough. What could be the harm in telling one person? It's like we're already becoming friends to share secrets to. We could have sleepovers! We could watch movies and try on silly outfits and everything. This is going to be so much fun!

Kurt gives me the strangest look as if he can just read my mind. He groans and closes his locker. He heads down the hall, mumbling something along the lines of 'this is why choir kids have a bad reputation.' Normally, I would comment, but nothing can bring me down today. Today, I'm unstoppable.

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><p><strong>Thoughts?<strong>


	3. with the Quinn Fabray

**Title:** First Date (3/?)  
><strong>Author<strong>: _youngerdrgrey_  
><strong>Pairing:<strong> Rachel/Quinn  
><strong>Summary:<strong> AU. Quinn needs someone for a charity event and there's nothing more charitable than spending time with Rachel Berry. Pre-Show.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>WarningsSpoilers:** None  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I own nothing. All rights for the characters and the world go to their owners (like Ryan Murphy and FOX). I, in no way, believe – or would lead others to believe – that I own _Glee_. I am merely a fan of the television show who has ideas for things that RIB could do/could've done.

**Author's Note:** In chapter three, we finally have the date. It's been a long time since I posted this (especially if you're with me on Tumblr) so I hope you take this extra long chapter as an apology. Please review if you read.

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><p><strong>(3?) FIRST DATE  
><strong>

* * *

><p>I think everyone has had at least one moment where they look in the mirror and feel like Barbra Streissand or Tina Fey or some other goddess of performing that deserves every bit of the attention and applause she receives on a daily basis. The moments are mini-daydreams of fantasies that we all want to live out. I can picture what would happen now if mine wasn't just a fantasy.<p>

Any second, some second-rate reporter from a questionable newspaper would pop out of the bushes, shove a microphone in my face, and demand to know who I have gotten so dolled up for. I would respond with no comment before sliding into Daddy's car and heading off to Breadstix. The reporter would trail us the entire way, but sneakily so that I would not feel cautious. Upon arriving at the restaurant, I would go in and be greeted by my beautiful girlfriend, Quinn, and the reporter would snap a few shots. The next day, everyone would know that we were in love. It would be… marvelous.

Daddy clears his throat from the driver's seat of the Honda. I break my stare with the side mirror to look into his chocolate brown eyes. Daddy is the one I most resemble personality wise, which is probably why he won out on driving me here. I insisted that it wasn't a date, but neither of my dads believed me. He still has that look of disbelief. I don't know whether to feel offended that he never thought this day would come, or just ecstatic that it finally has. Fake date for charity or not, I am spending my night opposite Quinn Fabray and some pasta dishes or something. The thought has me smiling more than it should.

Daddy's voice interrupts my thoughts.

"Rachel, honey, are you going to get out of the car?" he asks.

My gaze goes to the clock. We have been sitting outside for five minutes. Probably not the best impression. People will probably start to think Daddy is a pedophile for hanging outside of the most popular teen hangout with his lights off for an extended period of time. He could get arrested, especially since he is African American and there's still some subtle racism in our little Ohio town. I really should get out. For Daddy.

But what if this is a joke? What if Quinn set me up and is waiting to throw spaghetti on me? It would be humiliating. She could have Santana help her and lock me in the bathroom. Maybe there's an auction and I will be the only one who brings in no money. They'll even have to pay someone just to get me off the stage. She could spend the entire night complaining about how much she hates me. No. I've got it. She's not even here. She's off somewhere on a date with Finn and plans on stopping in the last minute the eatery is open to tell me how stupid I was to believe she wanted to spend even a second of her night with me. Why am I even here? We should just go.

Buzzz. Buzzzz.

My fingers scramble around in my purse until I find my cell phone. 1 NEW MESSAGE. I honestly didn't think anyone even had my number. I click to open it.

You better not be sitting in your car and wasting all of my hard work. Get your ass in there and show everyone what a miracle worker Kurt Hummel is. No, really, go on your date, Rachel.

As far as words of encouragement go, it could have been better. But beggars can't be choosers.

I unbuckle my seat belt and offer Daddy a kiss on the cheek.

"Thanks for the ride. I'll call you to pick me up later," I tell him. Then I grab the door handle, twist it, and step outside.

Cold air wraps all around my bare legs. It's nothing I'm not used to, but it increases my nerves. What if the restaurant is cold? When it's cold, nipples harden and that could be seen as a sign of arousal. I really don't need Quinn thinking I'm a pervert. She probably already does. She asked me in hopes it would quell my perverted desires. And Kurt dressed me like someone's fantasy. I don't really feel like me, but that's a good thing because tonight I need to be someone other than Rachel Berry. I need to be a different kind of Rachel, one who wears short, strapless, black, sweetheart styled dresses and says witty funny things to make Quinn laugh and who honestly deserves for this to be a real first date. I need to be that Rachel. I will be that Rachel.

Another moment everyone experiences is that perfect one where someone is about to leave and they open the door just in time for your entrance. It is very Hollywood and perfect. I stalk through the door to Breadstix with the cold wind trailing after me. It chases me like a lapdog and clings to the bottom of my dress and the edges of my hair, causing them to drag on behind me. Again, I feel like a superstar.

A few people do double takes upon my entrance. More do them after seeing my face. Cheerios start glaring at me as per usual, but I figure a few of them are out of jealousy.

I skim the crowd of red and white for Quinn, but she doesn't pop out anywhere. Of course she doesn't. Great. I've already been seen so running out is not an option. I need to get a table and eat and go. I could call Daddy in. No, that'd be more pathetic than sitting by myself in a crowd of sexually active couples.

I probably shouldn't assume they're all sexually active. The cheerleaders having sex thing is a stereotype that can't be true for them all. I'm sure at least one of them has to still be a virgin.

It's not Santana. Definitely not Santana. Or Brittany. Maybe Quinn. I like to think she is above the appeals of quarterback rugged charm, but she is far too pretty not to have constant offers. I would offer if it wouldn't take me back to that pervert image that I mentioned earlier.

I glance around a second time. Maybe I'll call Kurt. He would hate it, but he could possibly join me. He honestly isn't as bad as I thought he was. I hope he recognizes the same in me. If not, then well it was nice to have a few hours where we weren't bitter enemies vying for absolutely nothing. He hasn't even tried out for the Glee club, so I have no idea why he hates me so much. If he were in the club, he would probably hate Sandy more than anyone else. I hate Sandy. He's a frustrating, passive aggressive, flamboyant, power hungry staff sponsor who uses his position as leader of the club to favor the subject of his fantasies. Whether or not he has a girlfriend means nothing when he spends the majority of rehearsals leering at Hank. I should do something about it. It must be so tiring for Hank to fight off advances and have all of the leads. If I can't stop one, I might as well stop the other. I'll tell Principle Figgins tomorrow.

"I can hear you thinking from over here," Quinn complains. I whip around to her with a grin far too large for just being somewhat insulted. She stands with her hip popped and her left hand resting on it. Her palm actually forces her skirt to bunch a bit, revealing more of her thigh than should really be appropriate to show anywhere other than a strip club. Not that I'm complaining. She is my date though and should remain properly clothed for the majority of it.

Oh, she's impatient again. What did she say? Something about thinking too much.

"I believe that to be a sign of my extensive intellectual capabilities. I will try and refrain from doing so too much tonight, but I am quite the verbose thinker," I say.

She rolls her eyes. She turns on her heel and heads into the thick of the restaurant. I follow behind her doing my best not to get too close in case she stops suddenly.

I've done my research on Breadstix. It has open seating and is required by law to serve the customer as many breadsticks as they can eat. It also offers doggie bgs, which basically means that a person could leave with all of the bread in the universe if they saw fit. The place also hosts many fundraisers, such as the one happening for the Cheerios tonight.

"What are you raising money for?" I ask. Quinn stops walking and looks back at me. She seems to weigh whether or not she should answer my question. I offer a small smile it hopes it tips events in my favor.

"We don't know," she replies, "Coach Sylvester doesn't exactly include us in much of what's going on. We just do what she says and win Nationals for it."

That would drive me crazy. I love to be involved in the executive decisions. Sandy never allows for me to express my opinions. Hopefully he will be fired and someone a bit easier to handle will take over Glee. Would Ms. Sylvester do it? Oh, that would be horrible. I shudder at the thought.

Quinn asks, "Are you cold? I don't have a jacket to offer, not that I would or anything."

I shake my head. Her lack of chivalry is unsurprising yet upsetting just the same.

"No, Quinn, I'm merely suffering from a wave of hunger. Let's eat, shall we?" I ask. She gives me another look. This is not going so well.

She finally takes a seat at a table close to the back of the restaurant. The only other group back here is Santana and Brittany. There's a third plate at the table, but not a fourth. Weird. To each its own.

Quinn is obviously trying to hide me. She probably just doesn't want to feel the wrath of Ms. Sylvester when she is spotted with the queen of the bottom feeders. Another term for myself gifted by the Cheerios.

"For the next hour, you are not my worst enemy. We're two people, getting dinner, at a restaurant. Can you handle that?" Quinn asks me. I nod instantly.

"I can handle a lot more than you give me credit for, Quinn. I do after all continue to shine and sparkle regardless of the negative influences of our peers."

There's a beat.

She says, "You're also going to use shorter sentences. I don't want to get a headache."

"I don't feel comfortable changing that about myself. The way I speak is almost as much of a signature as the gold stars I put behind my name. I will not change that, Quinn," I say.

She gives me a new look this time. It almost seems like she's proud of me. Perhaps she does want me to stand up to her? Well, that is an interesting turn of events. I could do that too.

"Fine."

She picks up the menu. I follow suit.

As is customary for many Italian food places, the menu is littered with cheeses and thick, creamy sauces. Obviously those are out. As a vegan, I refuse to eat animal products that includes eggs, dairy, and honey. Quinn will probably eat something just dripping in the tears of dead animals. If this were a real date, I would mention that her eating of meat would deter me from kissing her. Maybe I should mention it, just in case.

She glances up at me. Some of her typically annoyed expression has faded away. I don't really want to bring it back. I look back down at my menu. I should pay more attention to what I am going to eat. This dress is very form fitting. I doubt I could eat much wearing it without winding up looking like I am in my second trimester and have the dress pop at the stitching. I'll just get a salad.

Quinn clears her throat. I turn my focus to her.

She says, "Remember, we're helping people and ordering a six dollar salad will do very little for the little Nigerian orphans with cystic fibrosis, or whatever we're raising money for."

That is a good point.

"In that case, I'll need to see a waiter and ask about vegan options," I tell her.

"You're vegan?"

"I don't think the only people are the people who look and think like me," I say with a smile. She grins herself.

"'Colors of the Wind'," she says.

"It was the first song I sang in full at competition," I share. She nods.

"You should probably asks the chefs directly. Waiters here are useless," Quinn advises.

I nod and stand, ready to find someone who can answer my questions. Luckily, the employee service door is right next to our table. I burst through it, not bothering to waste the time of knocking. Instantly, a man starts barking at me to leave.

"I just want to know if you have vegan options!" I offer quickly. The man pauses.

"We have a pasta that is vegan friendly. Order the conflict special. And get out of here," the man says.

"Thank you."

I turn and start to open the door. Through the small window, I see that Santana has hopped into my booth with Quinn. She's talking. Curiosity gets the best of me and I step aside and open the door so that I can hear them and not be seen.

"It's worse than with Hudson. At least he has something redeemable," Santana says.

"Please don't say anything about his package, Santana," Quinn says.

"I wasn't going there, but nice to see you think so. Screw Coach. Bring someone who doesn't make you want to vomit. Unless you're planning to thrown down Carrie style, I don't see why you'd bring her."

Oh no. This is about me. I should not be listening to this. I glance over my shoulder, but the man from before has turned back to cooking.

Quinn chuckles. "If I went Carrie style, we'd all be dead in less than twenty minutes," she says.

"True, but everyone still alive would see Berry for the freak she is."

I really don't like Santana. Have I ever said that before? She is scum. Dirty, foul smelling, gastric acid forming scum.

"Trust me," Quinn starts, "the last thing I want is to spend my night with Rachel Berry. The second I win the prize for most charitable, I'm kicking her to the curb."

Santana cackles, saying, "Now that's the Q I know. Be sure to let her know that she isn't welcome here in our space. Or on MySpace. Or on this planet."

"After tonight, she'll know exactly where she's welcome," Quinn vows. Santana laughs again and Quinn joins her this time.

I shrink back from the door. How could I have been so stupid? I should tell her off I really should! No, she would probably just turn my emotion against me like any good bully. I should just go. Yeah, that's it.

I take out my phone and send a quick text to my father. He asks no questions just sending me back an 'on my way.' Again, shouldn't it be surprising that I'm getting picked up not even thirty minutes into my first date? Am I doomed to be an ostracized, unloved virgin my entire high school career?

Probably.

I walk over to the man and tap on his shoulder.

I ask, "Is there a way to leave without having to go back into the restaurant?"

He asks, "Bad date?"

"Humiliating," I correct. He points to his right.

"Head down a bit, make a left and there's the alley entrance. I would be on your phone just in case someone's lurking out there. You have pepper spray?" the man checks. I shake my head. He hands me a bottle of hot sauce. "Does the trick just the same."

I smile and take the bottle. At least someone is genuinely kind today.

"Thank you," I say. I throw one last look at the table where Brittany has now joined the party. They won't even notice I'm gone.

With a sigh, I head down the hall to leave undetected. I just thought of a third experience nearly everyone has:

Where they head towards the car thinking, 'Worst date ever.'

* * *

><p><em><strong>Thoughts?<strong>_


	4. with the angry HBIC

**Title:** First Date (4/?)  
><strong>Author<strong>: _youngerdrgrey_  
><strong>Pairing:<strong> Rachel/Quinn  
><strong>Summary:<strong> AU. Quinn needs someone for a charity event and there's nothing more charitable than spending time with Rachel Berry. Pre-Show.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>WarningsSpoilers:** None  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I own nothing. All rights for the characters and the world go to their owners (like Ryan Murphy and FOX). I, in no way, believe – or would lead others to believe – that I own _Glee_. I am merely a fan of the television show who has ideas for things that RIB could do/could've done.

**Author's Note:** Signed into my email today and just died. I died you guys. The response to that chapter was breathtaking. I have no words for that. Chapter 4 is not as large as Chapter 3, but I hope you guys love it and review it just as much. Please review if you read.

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><p><strong>(4?) FIRST DATE  
><strong>

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><p>It's the day after our disaster of a date. I walk the halls trying my absolute hardest not to cower in a corner and cry until the pain of being used for a prank wears off. I can't believe I was stupid enough to go on that date. I should've at least eaten something while I was there. I had a horribly empty stomach all night. Daddy just reinstalled the water tank in my bedroom and told me he was there to talk. I spent most of the night in and out of the bathroom and watching the eight different illegal versions of<em> Spring Awakening<em> I have on my iPod. I'd still be listening to it, but my third period teacher took it away from me. Horrid woman.

Luckily, lunch time means I get forty-five minutes to belt out my feelings with Brad, our school pianist. I try to cross the school as inconspicuously as possible, but obviously confrontation is on the schedule for today.

Quinn grabs hold of my arm and whirls me around right in the middle of the hallway. For a moment, I consider the very real possibility that she will slap me and ruin my chances of ever having a semi-invisible existence for the rest of my horrible, high school my leaving ruined her plans, but it couldn't have put her in a bad enough position to kill me in the hallway.

She grumbles lowly, "I was the only one without a date for the charity dance at the end. You embarrassed me and you ran away from me. I don't approve of that, Ru Paul."

"Quinn," I say, and I try not to sound as angry as hearing that stupid nickname again makes me, "We spent the early half of a meal together last night. I think I deserve to be called by my given name."

"You deserve what I tell you that you deserve," she says.

That's obviously false. I walked away because I know what I should take and her and Santana always dish out far more than they should. I have done nothing to them. Ever!

"No, I deserve just as much as you, if not more. I deserve to be treated nicely and fairly and-"

She steps in close to me and looms down. Her breath falls on my neck and the fear of my life in jeopardy pops up once more. Some kids across the hall stop and stare, most likely to see Quinn make me cry. I refuse to let this have that affect.

She whispers, only for me, "Actually, you don't. You're a freak. I'm a Cheerio. Do the math. I will not be ignored or left waiting after you. You owe me. I want to finish what I started."

I shiver and take a step back, but she persists. My back hits the locker and I say, "Quinn, I heard you before and-"

"Ten minutes," she announces loudly, "You have ten minutes and then it's you and me in the choir room. Don't make me wait or you won't get out alive."

She pauses for only a second to make sure I understand what she's really saying (or maybe to see if I catch the very real threat there) before turning away. She goes down the hall without another glance. What did she mean? Does she want to kill me where there are less witnesses, or does she actually want to finish our date? Call me a masochist, but I have to know.

The kids who had watched the tense stalemate throw me pitying glances. If only they knew that Quinn might actually like me, they would probably die from the shock alone. Come to think of it, so might I.

I glance at the clock on the wall with a sigh. Nine minutes and thirty seconds. What does one do when she has nine minutes and thirty seconds before the possible love of her life kills her?

Hmm, I suppose I should tell Kurt before I die. Give him the money to pay for the clothes. Arrange for him to send Barbra Streisand a letter requesting she sing at my funeral. Actually, the last one really isn't a bad idea.

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><p><em><strong>Thoughts?<strong>_


	5. with the playful piano

**Title:** First Date (5/?)  
><strong>Author<strong>: _youngerdrgrey_  
><strong>Pairing:<strong> Faberry  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Quinn needs someone for a charity event and there's nothing more charitable than spending time with Rachel Berry.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>WarningsSpoilers:** None  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I own nothing. All rights for the characters and the world go to their owners (like Ryan Murphy and FOX). I, in no way, believe – or would lead others to believe – that I own _Glee_. I am merely a fan of the television show who has ideas for things that RIB could do/could've done.

**Author's Note:** Guess what I finally finished today? CHAPTER FIVE! I apologize greatly to everyone who grew invested in this story only to have me disappear for a month (or was it more?) because I never intended to string you guys along like that. This chapter gave me some trouble. I hope that you are all very pleased with the result and that you won't hold the wait against me. Please enjoy the chapter and tell me what you think when you're done.

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><p><strong>FIRST DATE - CH. 5<br>**

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><p>Kurt's jaw practically hits the ground when I tell him. He must be truly shaken because he does not even try to mask his admiration towards me. For the first time in years, someone my age looks at me like a goddess gracing the face of the Earth. It is a pleasant change.<p>

"I cannot believe you went on a date with Quinn Fabray," he says for the third time. His repetition grows old though. Perhaps that is why the Greek Gods took to staying on Olympus rather than sharing every bit of themselves with the mortals below.

I turn my attention to our surroundings. The chairs taunt me from their position on the risers. The whiteboard and the piano are also in on the joke for the red of the digital clock glints off of them to remind me of the time limit for this little conversation. The clock reads twelve-eighteen. I have less than two minutes until Quinn will walk through those doors and join me. And Kurt. Why does he have to eat in the choir room? It just makes this supposed distraction all the worse.

"And now she hates me," I remind him.

He interjects, "She hated you before, Rachel. She just wants to kill you now."

"What should I do?" I ask him.

If Quinn does not kill me today, I will write a memoir. It will be a glorious tell-all about my struggles and eventual triumphs. In it, I will talk about how my fathers are basically the epitomes of those perfect gay men who help their loved ones in a sassy and upbeat way that makes the audience feel warm and fuzzy and instills hope into LGBT youth that they too can be happy like these token characters in the big blockbuster hits. While Kurt, on the other hand, is the outwardly cynical, oppressed and defeated, regularly abrasive gay teen that just kind of rolls his eyes at everyone and makes the main character (in this case, me) feel as if she has the brain of a petunia. I'll even give examples.

Kurt's brilliant answer how to survive seeing Quinn again is example one.

He says, "Pray."

For once, I would like to join Noah in throwing him in a dumpster.

"That's not helpful, Kurt!" I say.

He sighs.

"Rachel, our deal was to dress you, not save you from your own disasters," he says.

"Was that not implied?" I ask. He rolls his eyes. I try another tactic. I step in and force my face into the pout that has gotten me everything I've wanted since birth. I beg, "Stay here with me. She can't kill me if there's someone else in the room."

Kurt chuckles and tells me, "Blood does not go with this outfit."

Then, as if that is some sort of magical excuse from the heavens, he picks up his little messenger bag and leaves the room. I almost run after him, but my phone jingles in my pocket. It starts with the low rumbling of vibrate and grows until 'No One Mourns the Wicked' rings throughout the room. My ten minutes are up.

I decide to place the piano between myself and the door. My feet slide slower than injured snails atop the worn flooring. Every step is one closer to my doom. I can practically hear the funeral march in my head. The combination of that and the opening number of _Wicked_ nearly have me in tears before Quinn even walks through the door. The sight of her when she does quite literally feels like a stab the gut.

She holds her Cheerios bag, an object that has never seemed as menacing as it does now. She could have easily put a gun in there. Knowing her particular type of terror, I rule that out. She would want something simple that would not be traced back to her. A gun is too messy. A knife? No, she won't kill me in here. The door has glass on it and someone could see. Maybe she will stash my body inside of the drum closet as a physical representation of how I lead my life and how wrong it is in her pristine – and prudish – eyes.

"Are you hiding behind the piano?" she asks. Her incredulous tone is nothing new. Still, I step a bit to the side just to make my answer less of a lie.

"No."

She rolls her eyes so hard in response that I swear she saw the gray matter in her brain. I hope it physically pains her. No, that's mean. Kind of true though. How can she hurt me if she has a migraine? The answer is: she can't.

Quinn crosses towards the piano and sets her bag on top of it, directly in the center of the two of us. I zero in on it. Red is the color of death. It's also the color of passion and love. And AIDS. But that is beside the point. I need to focus. Pay attention, Rachel. I have never had a problem focusing on her before. I guess all I needed to get over my crush was to believe she would injure me. I'm safe from Stockholm Syndrome then.

"Look up," Quinn says.

I do so.

Damnit. I don't know why I do. Why do I? Maybe I'm not over my crush. I'm so used to doing anything she wants or tells me to. She could tell me throw a slushie on my face and I probably would. Why am I so pathetic? She's horrible! She invited me on a date just to embarrass me. Actually, it wasn't even a date. She told me it wasn't a date. She practically warned me this would happen! I'm so stupid. How fantastic. September 10th 2009, mark it down as the day Quinn Fabray finally got Rachel Berry to say that she is stupid. It only took two years. Congratulations!

My frustration with myself must have shown in my face because her hands go back to her hips. I stand my ground.

"If you plan on murdering me, may I suggest doing so before the bell rings and people invade the halls? May I also suggest letting me go?"

Quinn quirks an eyebrow at me. She says, "I'm not holding you down, Berry. You're here because you want to be."

I try to offer a counterargument, but there really isn't a point. I did come to the room of my own accord.

"Fine," I say. The word has no point other than to show my annoyance. She wastes no time in showing her own once more.

She unzips the bag and reaches inside of it. A streak of fear runs through me and I realize that my fight or flight response leans towards the latter. Quinn smirks ever so slightly as her wrist becomes visible again, then her hand, and then… styrofoam? Why does she have Styrofoam? Suffocation? Packing me away to Israel at the request of Santana?

"Food trays," she says as if I'm an intellectually challenged puppy that keeps running into the glass door. My face resembles one for a moment as her statement sinks into my mind. Food trays. She has food trays, which means she has food, which could either mean that she wants to have a one-way food fight and then send me off into the halls with tomato sauce and chicken fetuses dripping down my green cardigan _or_… or she wants to eat lunch with me.

My head snaps up at the thought. Our eyes meet. For the briefest second, I see hesitance. In Quinn Fabray's eyes, I see nervousness. Nervousness! She wants to eat lunch with me. _She_ wants to _eat lunch_ with me! Oh my goodness I might go into shock. This is crazy. This is-is-is-

A fork gets pushed into my hand with more force than is necessary. The small plastic utensil bends slightly but remains about as in tact as my sanity. I stop staring at Quinn – who has gone back to going through the food trays – and glance down at the piano again. In its obsidian slate, my reflection shines up, confused and alight. Am I really smiling that widely? I force myself not to, but the joy remains in my eyes.

"She likes me," I whisper. The words feel exhilarating on my tongue. Her surprised and affronted face… not so much.

"I don't _like_ you," she hisses as she shoves one of the trays towards me. "I bought you dinner for charity. It's not like I can be expected to eat your stupid vegan food. I brought it in hopes that the bland tastelessness would rub on your grating personality."

Yeah, right.

I inform her, "I have been a vegan since the age of nine. I doubt it will make any change on who I am to eat this with you." She says nothing. I add, "But we can give it a try."

She glances up. This time, I spot hope. I wonder if she spots my undying devotion. Maybe that's why she goes back to her own food so quickly.

"Why aren't you hiding anymore?" she asks.

Why aren't I? Have I forgiven her already? Forgive her for what? I don't actually have proof she wanted to do a prank. She could have just been spouting off things for Santana. Maybe my exit was premature. And so were the paranoia and the death march and the hiding. The anger, though, is not. She deserves to know how her words affect people.

"Why aren't you boasting with Santana about how you're going to destroy me?" I ask back.

Her fork stalls in the air. She brings it back down and clears her throat. She says nothing.

I tell her, "I heard you talking to her last night. That's why I left. I know it probably hurt your feelings to be the one rejected for once, but it hurts me to be the one rejected for the ten-thousandth time. I understand that my reactions are dramatic and at times humorous. I don't believe that allows you the right to manipulate and terrorize-"

"Don't eat the food," Quinn says. She closes her own food tray and reaches for her Cheerios bag.

What is she doing? I'm not done.

"That does not give you the right to-"

"Pick on you, whatever, I get it," Quinn says. She zips the bag up. She sighs and says, "Don't eat the food, Rachel. It's got milk and cheese in the sauce."

Then, much like Kurt before her, she picks up her bag and leaves the room. As she goes, I can't help but wonder-

What the heck is going on around here?

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><p><em>I hope you enjoyed the story. Care to share your thoughts?<em>


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